


Icarus

by blackazuresoul



Category: Brink of Consciousness: Dorian Gray Syndrome
Genre: Dark, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mindfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1328344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackazuresoul/pseuds/blackazuresoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The genius Oscar contemplates his very first victim, preparing him for immortality. <br/>Based on the video game Brink of Consciousness: Dorian Gray Syndrome</p>
            </blockquote>





	Icarus

Beauty. It had been an obsession of his for as long as he could remember. The need to preserve the delicate and fleeting moments when things were at the peak of their allure had become more than a want for him and as he had matured, so had his need. Flowers pressed between pages of dusty old tomes were the larvae of his desire and fragile birds its chrysalis. But the true Monarch would reside within the animal whom God himself had placed above them all– man.

He had spent years developing a medium that would both fix and preserve the ones he’d choose for his art. Formalin wasn’t good enough and it still tended to degrade after time. No. Beauty would be safeguarded and would never fade and for this– he reasoned– his subjects should be grateful. Altering the pH slightly on the large tank that stood on his left, he then left the work area to visit with his _Adam_. A beautiful young man who’d been down on his luck had been lured from the streets of London with promise that he’d never know want again. The mysterious man had only identified himself as Oscar and though the riding compartment had been darkened, something told the boy he’d had nothing to lose as he climbed in to sit next to the shadowed figure.

With these recollections, he peered out the single window of his prison in the mansion. And what an exquisite cage it was; finely appointed and complete with diversions that would occupy the extended moments of solitude. The boy took his evening meals with the host but never ever saw his face as a large candelabra had been placed at his end of the table and the opposite side where Oscar sat was thrown into near darkness. His voice was pleasant and smoothly glided over the inflections and lower tones of speech and it was as if by that alone the guest was entranced. He was well-fed and provided for, but he was only permitted to stroll within the garden if wishing to go out of doors, his favourite thing the large marble fountain that made up the hub of the walking paths. The outer ring was elabourately carved with shells and undulated in its design to suggest waves crashing inward. Strangely enough, the centre of the structure was a bare platform and the young man wondered if whatever had been there had been broken or if it was simply awaiting its centrepiece.

There was an afternoon that Oscar had come in to the room and bade him stand and the boy found it curious he wore a death mask. No emotions had been painted on its rusty-looking surface, but vivid green eyes watched his every move and when the man approached and fixed his chin in a gentle yet firm grasp, the blonde felt as though they looked at his very soul. His head was made to pivot this way and that on his neck and soon the silk-gloved hand was dropped to palpate his left upper arm. “Sir, I…” He was interrupted by the muted exhale behind the mask, indicating he should quiet himself. His host slowly paced around him, meticulously dressed in fine linens and velvets, the lace of his cuffs laying softly over his gloved hands that were crossed behind him. The man’s dark hair was neatly pulled back in a tail and the boy watched those hands tense then loosen in their hold before Oscar stopped again to gaze at him through the darkened eyes of the mask. A hand raised once more, this time to arrange a thick strand of blonde hair to his liking and he turned on a heel then left the room, the sound of the lock engaging a breath later.

In the sixth week, the man had taken to calling him _Icarus_ , which the boy thought quite odd but paid little mind as Oscar had been true to his word. Every need had been carefully considered and met, even down to the silks and linens he wore each day or the food that was placed on the small table in his salon. He was no longer invited to dine with his host and his garden outings had now become a thing of the past, his only view of the outside world afforded to him through the parting of heavy draperies. He pondered how quickly he’d forgotten the scent of a spring breeze as it passed through the lilacs that fronted the garden, or the soft mist that would veil his face from the fountain. Without such diversions, the boy’s mind would wander; his suppositions ranging from what the other rooms of the mansion held to what his host looked like beneath the mask. He could imagine Oscar to be stunningly beautiful or hideously ugly, though his romantic side tended to the former to be sure.

He came to know Oscar was an artist when the man began to visit him at night to sketch him by candlelight. No conversation passed between them, apart from a soft command to turn his head or a quiet word of praise. On this night, however, his benefactor wished to sketch him without benefit of the cloth he typically draped high on his lap. No response had come from the man when the material pooled on the floor– just the simple sound of charcoal skritching on paper. Before taking his leave, Oscar approached him, his free hand reaching out to test the firmness of stomach muscles. The touch left its ghost upon the young man’s skin, even as fingertips departed and he was faced with that shadowed gaze. “You will be resplendent,” Oscar stated on a drawled cadence and before the boy could speak, he was alone once again.

That night, Oscar sat in his chambres, several parchments littering the surface of his writing desk. The sketches he’d drawn over the past month had captured his subject in various poses but it was the one of the boy’s face that compelled him to pick it from the others. He had drawn the young man’s features with a dedicated and precise hand, ensnaring his essence in the forelorn and somewhat contemplative countenance he’d given the charcoal portrait. His eyes had caught his attention at their initial meeting and he would ensure they would still hold the same innocense when committed to immortality. It was only fitting the boy should both awe and inspire and he’d already chosen how to best capture both.

He had to admit his first foray was a bit grandiose and should it fail, he’d have to scale back. But an artist either gives all or nothing and he wasn’t prepared to settle for anything less than perfection. The boy would be the bar to which future projects would be expected to aspire. He would see to it. As he set down the sketch, he raised a glass of a deep red wine to his lips. Purity was something he’d been lacking since his beloved had chosen a different path. However, that path had been clearly marked and it was a matter of time before he would set things right again, though he was loathe to elevate such trechery to an aesthetic level. But one must suffer for their craft, he reasoned.

Wine glass held in one hand, Oscar drew a finger along the soft curve of the portrait’s jaw. He could still capture that innocense, even if there was none to be had. The boy’s death would be an even measure of pleasure and pain as befitting such a lovely specimen. Two months in his guarded care had broken the spirit and it was from those ashes that art would be painstakingly created. His subject had flown too close to the sun but his fall would be breathtaking.


End file.
